yeli ༘

Bad Sleepingwalking Problem

Steven Grant/Marc Spector x f!reader

⏾ WARNINGS: p in v, creampie, chaining/bondage, noncon/cnc, nsfw obvi, alcohol consumption. MDNI

⏾ NOTE: my first actual smut fic, I don’t like ts at all but I’ve been working on this for tew long I’m not gonna let it to go waste 💔

After weeks of job hunting, you finally got hired at The National Gallery. Moving to London a few months ago had been harder than you expected. You came here hoping to start over—to build something for yourself. A new city, a new job, new people.. maybe even a new love life. Anything that felt different from the life you’d left behind.

By some miracle, you were assigned to the gift shop, and that’s where you met Steven Grant.

You clicked almost immediately. There was something endearing about the way he’d light up whenever he talked about ancient Egyptian gods, going on and on with facts no one had asked for, his words spilling over each other whenever he got excited. You never minded listening. In fact, you loved it. He fit right in at the museum—at least, that’s what you thought. Your boss, however, looked like she’d rather set herself on fire than let him anywhere near the tour groups.

Most nights, the two of you worked the late shift together, and those quiet hours usually dissolved into conversation. You’d start with stocking shelves or cleaning up, but somehow you always end up standing behind the counter, talking so long you forgot there was actual work to do.

Tonight was no different.

Steven was rambling about Egyptology again, hands moving as he spoke, completely lost in one of his usual tangents. This time you could barely focus on what he was saying. You had something else on your mind.

You’d been flirting with him for weeks, making it as obvious as you possibly could. You’d even asked him out three separate times. And every single time, he’d somehow “forgotten” by the next day, looking at you with that confused little frown and insisting you were making it up.

At first, it was almost funny. Then frustrating. Now? You were done waiting for him to make the first move.

Tonight, you were going to do something he wouldn’t forget.

Never in your life had you had to beg someone this much just to go out for one night.

After the twentieth please, Stevennnn, he finally gave in.

Honestly, you were starting to wonder what exactly he had planned that made staying in so important. Every time you suggested going out, he’d dodge it like you were asking him to commit a crime.

You’d agreed to meet an hour after both of you clocked out, mostly because you wanted to make sure he’d actually show up this time and not mysteriously “forget” again.

The hour passed quicker than expected, and before long, you were climbing out of an Uber in front of a restaurant far fancier than either of you could probably afford. You wanted something nice.

Your only real goal tonight was simple: get the both of you tipsy enough for him to stop overthinking everything.

You pulled out your phone and texted him.

Should I wait outside?

The reply came almost instantly, like he’d been staring at the chat the entire time.

No, I’ll be there in five.

You smiled at the screen, gave the message a quick thumbs-up, and headed inside. They seated you in a quiet corner near the back, dim lighting casting soft shadows over the table. You scrolled on your phone endlessly, time felt unbelievably slow now—right on the sixth minute, he walked in.

But something felt… off.

It was him. It looked like him. Same curls, same slightly hunched posture, same face you’d spent the last few months trying not to stare at during every shift.

And yet, it didn’t feel like Steven.

You couldn’t quite explain it—just something in the way he carried himself. More sure. Less awkward. Like he wasn’t shrinking into the room the way he usually did.

Still, you brushed it aside.

“Hey, sorry I kept you waiting,” he said, sliding into the seat across from you. His voice sounded way different, the stupid, British accent practically gone.

He sat down then casually rubbed at a faint red mark on his cheek, like he’d just come from somewhere he shouldn’t have been.

“Something came up.”

You raised an eyebrow, confused but laughed it off. “That’s alright. I already ordered.”

His brows lifted. “You did?”

“Just drinks,” you said, leaning back with a grin. “Got their fanciest beer.”

He blinked at you. “I… don’t drink, actually.”

The answer came too quickly, almost rehearsed.

You tilted your head, amused. “Well, you are tonight.”

Steven looked like he was already searching for an excuse to bolt, so you leaned forward before he could.

“You wouldn’t make a girl drink all by herself, would you?”

For a moment, he just stared at you.

Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth twitched into something that wasn’t quite Steven’s shy smile. It was sharper. He picked up the glass the waiter had just set down, turning it slightly in his hand before meeting your eyes.

“Suppose that’d be a bit rude, wouldn’t it?” he said, voice low, with a confidence you’d never heard from him before.

. . .

It didn’t take more than three shots for you to be completely off the hook.

The alcohol hit you embarrassingly fast, warmth rushing to your face until everything around you felt pleasantly fuzzy. Your original plan had been to get both of you drunk enough for everyone to loosen up, but that quickly fell apart. Steven, somehow, barely looked affected at all. He nursed his drinks like they were water, while you were already slurring halfway through your third beer.

It ruined your plan entirely.

But you were too drunk to notice.

By the time the bill came, he paid, though not without a brief pause when he saw the total, his mouth tightening for a second before he handed over his card anyway. He would’ve never let you pay, even if the price physically pained him.

When he walked you outside, the cold night air quickly hit your face. Your steps were uneven, words tangling together between little bursts of laughter as you stumbled over nothing. Steven stayed close beside you, steadying you once when your foot caught against the curb.

“What’s your address again?” he asked, already pulling out his phone. “I’ll get you an Uber.”

“Wait…” you murmured, grabbing both his wrists before he could finish typing.

Your grip was clumsy but enough to stop him.

“Listen,” you said, swaying closer, eyes glassy as you looked up at him. “Why can’t you just let loose for once?”

He looked at you, confused at first, but he didn’t pull away.

You tightened your hold slightly, words spilling out before you could think them through.

“I mean… any guy would’ve brought me back to their bed by now, but you just have to be soo fucking lame.”

The moment you said it, a sober version of yourself would’ve wanted the pavement to split open and swallow you whole.

You didn’t mean it. Not really. You were just saying bullshit, whatever came to your intoxicated mind, hoping somehow it would get a rise out of him.

And it did.

His expression shifted.

Just slightly, but enough.

Something in his face hardened, annoyance flickering there first, then something else. Something sharper. Like jealousy mixed with bruised pride.

What you didn’t know was that this wasn’t exactly Steven.

It was his body, his face, his voice.

But the man looking down at you now wasn’t the shy, awkward museum worker who forgot your confessions and blushed when you teased him.

This version of him was different.

More daring. More certain.

And unlike Steven, this one wouldn’t pass on an opportunity that was practically being handed to him.

. . .

The door shut behind the two of you with a soft click, and for a moment, everything was swallowed by darkness.

It was colder inside than you expected—almost unnaturally so. The kind of chill that seeped through your clothes and raised goosebumps along your arms. You stood still, blinking, until he reached past you and flicked on the light.

The flat came into view all at once.

Your eyes landed first on a fish tank, a lone goldfish swimming in lazy circles beneath the dim glow. Then everything else started to register—shelves cluttered with random objects, papers scattered across surfaces, drawers left half-open, clothes tossed carelessly over a chair. It looked like someone had been living three different lives in the same space and forgot to clean up after any of them.

“Sorry about the mess,” he said from behind you, putting his coat down. His tone had an edge to it, almost teasing. “Didn’t expect visitors.”

You ignored the comment, too busy taking everything in.

It felt strangely intimate, being here. Seeing the space he retreated to after work, the place you’d imagined a dozen times but never thought you’d actually step inside. Your gaze moved over every detail like it might be the last time you’d ever see any of it.

You wandered deeper into the flat, leaving him by the door.

The desk caught your attention first. It was a disaster—covered in loose papers, scribbled notes, and open books stacked so high they looked ready to topple over. You stumbled closer, squinting at the pages. Sketches of symbols. Handwritten translations. Entire piles of books about ancient Egyptian history and mythology.

Of course.

You laughed quietly to yourself. It was the most Steven thing you’d ever seen.

Then your attention shifted to the bed.

At first, it looked normal enough—unmade sheets, blankets half-pulled to one side. But then something near the bedpost caught your eye.

Your eyebrows furrowed as you stepped closer.

chains—metal chains. looped tightly around one of the bedposts, secured with what looked like a heavy clasp.

You grabbed one of the chains and held it up. “This is for..?” you asked, smiling faintly as you raised an eyebrow at him.

“I have a really bad sleepwalking problem.”

You blinked at him slowly, trying to decide if he was serious.

It didn’t feel like a joke. But it didn’t feel entirely serious either.

“Yeah?” you said, still holding the chain up.

“Yeah.”

silence, except for the constant hum of the fish tank filter in the corner of the room

Then he began walking toward you.

Slow, unhurried.

Not threatening—but not exactly reassuring either.

Your gaze stayed locked on him for a second too long, like your brain was trying to catch up to something your body already felt.

Your fingers loosened. The chain slipped from your hand and clattered softly onto the floor. You didn’t even notice when it happened.

All you noticed was him getting closer.

Closer, and closer, until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed and you sat down without even realizing it. He followed immediately, one hand braced beside you as he leaned in enough to slowly push you back against the mattress.

The room suddenly felt too warm despite the cold flat, your head spinning from the alcohol and the way he was looking at you now—focused, intense, He climbed over you carefully, settling between your legs as you pushed yourself up slightly on your elbows, unwilling to stay still another second.

You couldn’t wait anymore.

Your hands flew to his face, fingers gripping his jaw as you pulled him down into a desperate, hungry kiss. And he kissed you back instantly.

One of his hands caught your wrists easily, guiding them down against the mattress while the other traced slowly down your chest, deliberate enough to make your stomach tighten. The kiss deepened almost immediately, rougher than you expected, like he’d been holding himself back for far too long.

The room now filled with soft moans and whines, he pulled back just enough for you to breathe, forehead nearly resting against yours, and for a second you just stared at him.

Something about him had completely changed.

Your gaze flicked briefly toward the chains hanging from the bedpost as his fingers teased against the waistband of your skirt. You sat up on your elbows, returning your eyes back at him.

His brow lifts slightly.

“I have an idea.”

Before long, Marc was chained to his own bed. It wasn't the familiar, safety setup Steven used to prevent midnight desert excursions. This time, the metal cuffs bit into his wrists strictly to keep him from touching you. A flash of surprise crossed Marc's face, he wasn't used to being “submissive”—vulnerable, but the heat pooling in his gut quickly wiped away any real protest. You stepped back to the foot of the bed, admiring your very first attempt at “bondage.” A slow, almost freakish smile spread across your face.

“Woah, okay… I mean, this is new.” a breathless laugh escaping him. It was a mix of genuine nerves and arousal.

You didn’t reply. Instead, you climbed back onto the mattress, crawling over him until you were straddling his lap. You leaned down, pressing sweet, agonizingly gentle kisses along his jawline.

When you finally drifted up to his lips, you stopped just an inch away. Marc’s eyes stayed shut, bracing for a kiss that never came. You couldn't help but giggle.

Tapping his nose playfully, you sat up on your knees, straddling his waist before slowly starting to pull your dress up over your head. Immediately, Marc’s eyes went wild. He didn’t know where to look—darting from your thighs, to your body, up to your face.

A dark flush crept up his neck, and the sheer frustration of his helplessness kicked in; he instinctively tried to lift his arms to help, only for the chains to snap taut with a sharp metallic clink.

“No, nooo,” your voice muffled, “I’ve got it.”

He couldn’t even form a coherent response, he was too busy staring at your practically naked body, offering nothing but a mumbled, breathless string of gibberish and a thoroughly wrecked laugh.

The dress was thrown to the floor, followed quickly by your bra and panties. Left completely bare, you shifted to position yourself right over his face—Marc’s mouth was already parted, practically salivating for you.

You gripped the metal of the headboard, anchoring yourself as you slowly sank down. A soft moan caught in your throat.

Beneath you, Marc’s tongue slid up your wet length, swirling and burying itself into your tight hole with a desperate, frantic hunger. Unable to hold back, you ground yourself heavily against his mouth, letting out whines so loud the neighbors could probably hear.

You bit down on your lip as you moved your hips, he followed your rhythm, so badly wishing he could touch you, hold you.

“mmmm, yeah, just—like that.” You stuttered, your face lowering onto the headboard while your hands gripped tighter to hold yourself.

He groaned, a desperate, muffled sound against your flesh. Instinctively, his chest heaved and his shoulders braced as he tried to reach up to grab your hips..again—only for the heavy clink of the chains to remind him he was entirely at your mercy.

The louder your whines got, the faster Marc licked, completely consumed by the taste of you. He was a man starved, his jaw working against your inner thighs as he tried to devour you whole.

The pleasure was so intense it was making his mind fracture at the edges; he could feel the slight tremor in his body as he fought to stay completely present, terrified that Steven might front and ruin the moment.

"Marc," you stuttered, voice shaking as a wave of heat washed through you—realizing how close he was bringing you to the edge, you deliberately rocked your hips backward, pulling just out of reach of his tongue.

Marc let out a harsh, frustrated groan, his head straining off the pillow to follow you. "Please," he choked out, his voice wrecked, his lips glistening with your slick. You looked down at him, leaning heavily on the headboard, enjoying the sight of the ruthless mercenary completely unraveled beneath you.

you tilted your head, smiling. You were really enjoying this.

You quickly unbuttoned his pants. The sound of the zipper was sharp in the quiet room, followed by the ragged sigh of pleasure he couldn't suppress. As you lowered yourself onto him, his hips bucked instinctively. With one hand guiding his shaft and your mouth working a steady pace, you felt the way his body twitched and surrendered to the friction, his control (which barely he had) shattering.

He could imagine his hands gripping your hair as he pushed your head deeper onto him, if only. But this was just as good.

You kept your gaze locked with his, watching the way his pupils dilated and increased your pace, letting your palm slide along his cock with deliberate friction. He groaned, his body arching off the mattress as far as the chains would allow. "haaa..," he hissed through gritted teeth, his head dropping back against the pillow.

While shifting himself, he turned his head to the side, forgetting about the vanity mirror that is angled perfectly toward him. His eyes locked onto the glass, a familiar reflection staring back with furrowed brows pulled tight.

“Shit,” he muttered, a very clear tone of annoyance.

Steven’s face rapidly turning a humiliated shade of crimson. “Bloody hell, Marc... what are you doing?”

That voice..

“What?” You pulled back, blinking in confusion, your breath hitching as you looked at him. You had heard the words, but they hadn't come from the man you were looking at. “Did you… did you say something?”

Marc’s eyes snapped back to yours, his pupils dilating as he fought to regain control. His posture stiffened, When he spoke again, there was a clear difference of accent, you couldn’t brush it off this time.

“No,” he rasped, his eyes locking onto yours with a desperate, intense hunger that demanded you ignore the impossible. “Just… keep going.”

“Why are you doing that?” you asked,

“Doing what?”

“Switching accents,” you pressed, pulling back just enough to look him in the eye. “And how does it just… disappear like that? You’ve never done that before.” You hiccuped.

He blinked, his gaze flicking toward the mirror for a fraction of a second before he forced himself to focus entirely on you. He looked frantic, his chest heaving against the chains. “Uh, I’m just—maybe you’d find a constant British accent irritating,” he deflected, his tone sounding like a clumsy, poor imitation of himself.

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, but the sheer absurdity of the moment made a nervous laugh escape your lips. “Weirdo,” you teased,

Deciding to let the bizarre moment slide in favor of the heat between you, you dipped your head back down. You felt his body coil with anticipation, his muscles bunching as you returned to your rhythm.

“Y-yep,” he stammered, the word breaking into a ragged moan as he bucked against your touch.

“Is that... is that her?!” Steven rambled, his breath coming in short, panicked huffs. “How did we even get here, Marc? I mean—really? Tied up? And—and all of this?” He gestured vaguely with his chin. “I should’ve known you’d do something after making me switch out for that stupid fight.

The voice that spilled out was sharper than his own, embarrassed was an understatement, but Steven definitely felt painful envy. Marc just rolled his eyes.

“You had your chances, Steven,” Marc muttered, his voice gravelly and dismissive. He stammered slightly as he tried to regain his footing, his gaze darting back to you—only to find you already staring at him with a look of utter bewilderment and confusion,

the guy you’re sucking off seems to be having a full blown conversation with himself right now.

“Switch with me,” he pleaded, his voice dropping to a desperate, quiet whisper. “Just for a minute. Let me… let me feel it. Please.”

The disconnect was too much to ignore, I mean you're literally watching this guy’s lips pressed firmly shut while a second, frantic voice poured into the room, seemingly from thin air

You snapped your head toward the vanity mirror, your eyes darting between the man physically chained to the bed and the man staring back from the glass—two versions of the same face, one exhausted and hard, the other pleading and raw. You shook your head, not being able to differentiate between reality or if you were just really drunk.

Marc’s eyes locked onto yours, the reflection, however, didn't look at you—he was staring at Marc out of embarrassment, avoiding confrontation.

“You’re just hearing things!” Marc rasped before you could even open your mouth, his American accent strained and heavy as he fought to force the other presence down. “Right, I mean you’re drunk, It’s been a long night.”

“Oh come on!” The reflection’s voice echoed in the small room, “You’re lying to her and keeping all of this for yourself!”

You couldn't find the words; nothing could bridge the gap between what you were seeing and what you were hearing. How was the reflection speaking? And why did he sound exactly like Steven—the real Steven?

But, you did drink a bunch..maybe you were just hearing things.

Your eyes moved away from the reflection back towards Marc.

Marc scrambled to salvage the moment, his heart hammering against his ribs. He wanted to get back to what they were doing, but Steven—always interfering, always hovering—was actively ruining everything.

“Hey—hey, how about we do something else, yeah?” he rasped, his voice strained and desperate. He looked at you with an intensity that burned, his wrists rattling sharply against the bedframe. “Get me out of these bloody chains, and I’ll help you clear your mind.”

That instantly brought you back to the heat of the moment, the logical part of your brain dissolving as you gave in. You moved to the bedposts, clicking the chains open, your fingers brushing against his wrists. You didn't even notice the shift—the way the frantic, hard-edged intensity in his eyes suddenly softened.

Marc hadn't wanted to give up the body, but the effort of holding Steven back had finally shattered his focus. And steven wasn’t holding back anymore.

He surged forward, grabbing your waist and pulling you back down onto the mattress. You gasped as you hit the bed, the sudden shift in his demeanor catching you off guard.

He didn’t waste a single second, completely ignoring the muffled, frantic rambling of Marc’s reflection in the mirror. Instead, he placed a firm hand on your stomach and pushed in, the sudden pressure dragging a stuttered, loud moan from your lips.

He leaned forward the more he pressed in, going in to kiss you, practically devouring your lips as if this would be the last time he’d ever touch you, he pulled away just slightly as he started thrusting, the wet, heavy sounds of the friction mixing with the hitching of your breath and his low, jagged gasps.

He lowered himself fully onto you, the weight of him grounding you as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. He began to press firm, heated kisses against your skin, He began to suck at your skin, leaving hickeys with a possessive urgency, hearing your whimpering and stammering moans fueled him.

He wanted that physical proof to stare back at him when he saw you at work tomorrow, a reminder that this moment was real and not just a fragment of his fractured mind.

He also knew how much those would piss off Marc when he finally regained control.

And it also didn’t take long before Steven was close.

His voice hitching as he begged,

“Please, can I—haa, cum..inside? he stuttered in between breaths. “Want you—wanna fill you up.”

Your mind was fogged but you nodded, a hazy, submissive movement, completely lost in the moment. The thought of consequences didn't even register— though luckily you were on the pill.

With one final, shuddering thrust, he let out a muffled groan, his face burying deep into the bedsheets as he released himself inside you. Followed by ragged, hitching moans that escaped your own lips.

Within seconds, the room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. The only thing tethering you back to reality was the steady, rhythmic hum of the fish tank, the soft bubbling of the filter.

More Moonknight fics pls….

⌖ EASY stalker!BrianMoser x f!reader

♰ WARNINGS: violence, body disposal/handling, CNC but turns into NONCON, nsfw, p in v, dark themes, somnophilia. MDNI

♰ NOTE: This is a psychological thriller and intentionally disturbing. Not romantic; he does NOT have any romantic feelings towards reader, he just has a hero complex and is insane.

This is pt3, the final part. This isn’t proofread so sorry abt any mistakes and also I cannot write sex stuff for the life of me so sorry abt that too… ;(

After he’s done with his victims severed parts he usually wraps them up and places them wherever it’ll get people’s attention, but he doesn’t really want to bother tonight, he needs to hurry up.

He tosses the guys parts into black bags and in such a rush he ties it and leaves it in the freezer room, he turns off the lights and removes his gloves off with his teeth. He’s way past his usual time to check up on you, ruining his own routine just because he can’t control himself, but who knows what you could be doing?

The sink runs. Water splashes against his hands as he scrubs harder than necessary, he looks up at the mirror.

“You’re fine,” he mutters under his breath.

Because he is. He always is.

he grabs his keys. This is just an adjustment. A necessary one.

3:20 AM.

He finally arrives at your neighborhood, parking a flew blocks away as usual, The sharp click of his car locking cuts through the silence, then gravel as he walks. He turns the corner to the back of your apartment and stops, a slow yawn pulling from his chest as he rubs at his eyes. When he finally opens them again, it’s sluggish—unbothered, almost lazy. Then he blinks. His brows knit together, the haze instantly gone.

What the fuck?

Your window, completely shut. The inside of your room blocked by pink glittery blinds. They’re not even see through. Why are you doing this? It’s been 2 days since the incident. (him releasing himself onto your pillow.) did you actually realize? (Of course you did.) He exhales slowly, the irritation settling into something else; This inconvenience actually meant something good.

1. You slept on a pillow stained with him.

2. You woke up, noticed it—and instead of breaking, you tried to make yourself feel safe.

3. Most important of all—you thought of him.

Someone entered your room while you were asleep. Did you call the police?

No. You wouldn’t.

The hard on in his pants snaps him back to the present. The idea of you convincing yourself you’re safe—of you trying to regain control—turns him on more than he cares to admit.

This was just another quiet check-in. But you changed that. Now he has to remind you; No matter what you do, no matter how careful you think you are, someone is always watching.

“Doesn’t matter,” he mutters under his breath. He tests the window handle anyway—just to see.

Click.

A slow smile pulls at his lips.

Of course it opens, fucking whore.

He takes off his shoes and slips inside, careful and soundless. He eases the window closed just partway, leaving it slightly unsealed so it can be reopened easily. You weren’t sleeping, he can sense it, his eyes pierce right through you from across the room.

You can sense his eyes, already feeling the slickness in your underwear.

Alright, this isn’t as intriguing anymore when you’re playing along. He lets out a slow sigh, irritation flickering across his expression before he forces it down. Fine. He’ll pretend too. It’s easier that way anyway. Whatever frustration lingers, he can deal with it here. With you. He begins walking over towards your bed. Staring at your practically naked body, you were in your underwear and wearing a tank top. A subtle twitch flickers at the corner of his mouth. You’re disgusting. He almost walked out, but he decides you can be useful for something.

You force your eyes closed, imagining the strangers next move, unpredictable, actually, that is until you hear the ruffling of his pants and his presence—he’s right in front of you. A couple seconds pass and you can hear zzziiiippp. You couldn’t help but bite your lip, eyes still remaining closed. You’re fantasy disrupted by him grabbing you by the hair, a fist full, tightly.

He’s not going to let you enjoy this, you filthy slut. You groaned out of pain, opening your eyes to finally reveal the creep. A tan guy, looks like mid 30s, wavy/curlyish hair.

He seemed, familiar.

“Wai—“ you literally had 1 second before you blacked out, and in that second, all you noticed was the guys pants dropped to his feet. Brian shook his hands as you fell right back at your bed, a noticeable bruise on the side of your head. He didn’t mean to make you go out like that, but he panicked. He pulls down his boxers, his length springing out, already leaking of precum. He was kind of disappointed in himself, he didn’t like the control you had on him when it came to that.

He stood at the edge of the bed, watching you actually sleeping now. A slow smile forms, control settling back into place, like how it’s supposed to be. His cold hands grab your knees, separating them, you were dripping wet, a slick spot on your panties, “pathetic, you get off to people coming in and using you?” He asks as he pulls your legs closer to him, silence replying back. He holds his cock with one hand, stroking slowly, the other peeling your panties to the side. He stares, no— admires it for a few, not knowing if this is the last time he’ll see it. He had 2 options; kill you after this, or—yeah no, you’re dead, but Atleast he’ll have you to himself, preserved beautifully in his freezer room.

Moaning feels the room as he finally enters your slick pussy. You were so warm, and so “tight…” he groaned. His hand now on your stomach—feeling how deep he thrusted in you. He finally opened his eyes, leaning closer, other hand in your neck which he used for support. After a few minutes he got rougher, pounding into you as he remembers your initial “plan”; you didn’t even know who was sneaking inside, it could’ve been anyone, not him. That angered him.

He slapped you in the face, going even deeper on your numb body, the grip on your neck tightening but not enough to suffocate you. His heavy breathing fills the room as he went faster. Your consciousness came rushing back all at once—pain blooming sharp and relentless at the side of your head, your body tensing as a tight grip pressed against your neck and now something going in and out of you.

Your eyes snapped open, vision blurring before slowly sharpening into something you recognized.

Him.

The same man from earlier.

Confusion hit just as hard as the pain. Your thoughts stumbled over themselves, you didn’t have time to think. You couldn’t remember how you ended up like this. You let out stuttered moans that turned into cries. Brian knew you’d wake up sooner or later. He was close and you weren’t going to ruin this for him. He pushed your head to the left, shoving on your mattress, covering your muffled sounds, but failing. You couldn’t even fight, or struggle. You were weak.

“you—wanted this. Don’t fucking fight.” He pulled out, turning you over so he wouldn’t see you, your tears soaking the area your face was pressed on. He pulled you close to him by your hair which he readjusted to be on your neck instead. Your ass was pressed against his pelvis making his cock slide even deeper inside you. His other hand pushed your stomach.

“You’re gonna take it right? I’ll fill you up just like you wanted.” Leaning on your ear he stuttered in between breaths. Finally finishing inside of you, he let go of your neck and your stomach dropping you on the bed. You twitched as his seed spewed out of you, groaning and in pain, you looked up one last time at your window, the wind blowing in through your pink blinds.

crrrrrrr

The silence lingered for a few before breaking into a sharp gasp, followed by a choked, gurgling sound as you clutched your throat, looking down to a pool of blood on your mattress and your hand.

Your vision went black within seconds.

What a handy pocket knife.

At that moment, he was glad he was the last person you saw—he believed he deserved that role more than anyone.

—

It’s been weeks and Brian checks up on you daily, you look so pretty up on his shelves, he even tied little ribbons on each limb.

stalker fic?

amazing!!

༒︎ EASY stalker!BrianMoser x f!reader

♰ WARNINGS: violence, body disposal/handling, dead body. MDNI

♰ NOTE: This is a psychological thriller and intentionally disturbing. Not romantic.

This is also a part 2, the last part will be part 3. I didn’t really know how to keep the story going but since you guys liked it I just did some bs!!!!

1:50 AM

He closes up for the night, finally done with work. Brian walks toward the exit, the cold air hitting him comfortably, wind brushing through his curls. He does his usual glance back at the building.

Nothing left open.

No lights on.

Ready!

He turns and heads to his car, driving off into the empty streets.

He’s not going to check on you tonight.

He has better things to do.

Brian’s house is elegant. Neat. Organized. Vintage architecture, large but stripped down to monochrome. Everything in its place. The best part is the freezer unit he installed in the basement. He pulls into the driveway and parks, eyes scanning the street out of habit. Not that it matters. No one’s out at this hour. That’s what he likes about his shifts.

He steps out and opens the trunk, the stench hits him immediately; he’s used to it, it’s comforting. His hand reaches into his pocket, pulling out the Polaroid again. He glances at it under the dim light, then turns to the guy's face—making sure this is the incel you so much “love”. 

Not that he makes mistakes.

But precision matters.

“It’s you,” he murmurs quietly, more confirmation than question. He slides the photo back into his pocket and reaches for the man’s arm, lifting it to gauge the weight.

Heavier than expected.

He grips under the arms and pulls—nothing. Awkward. The man’s height works against him, limbs catching on the edge of the trunk.

Brian’s jaw tightens, his brows furrowed. He stares at the body then adjusts his stance and pulls again, harder this time.

The body finally shifts, sliding forward with a dull thud against the bumper.

He pauses once more.

The size difference is noticeable. Taller. Broader.

He brushed it off as his physique being “inconvenient”.

Doesn’t matter, better for him, he’s never played with someone of such body weight.

He pulls him out the rest of the way, letting the body drop fully onto the ground before repositioning his hold. The struggle doesn’t show on his face, but it lingers in the tension of his movements—quick, efficient, like he’s correcting something that shouldn’t have been an issue to begin with.

He exhales once through his nose.

“Should’ve been more careful,” he mutters, though it’s unclear who he’s referring to.

He begins dragging him inside. Brian usually handles his toys with care, he either carries them or seals them up in a black bag. No marks. No damages. 

This one doesn’t earn that. Not because he’s too big for him—

He’s just not worth it.

The basement door shuts quietly behind him. The room is already cold. He flips the switch. Fluorescent light hits the room, Everything is exactly where it should be. Clean. Ordered. Predictable. He puts on his jacket and gloves.

Now to put this guy on the table.

But first, the Polaroid, placing it on a nearby surface, aligning it carefully with the edge like it’s part of a file. Evidence. Reference.

His gaze moves between the image and the man “resting” on the cold floor.

Up close, the difference is harder to ignore. Taller. Broader shoulders. The kind of build that takes up space without asking.

For a second, something flickers.

Annoyance.

Not intimidation.

He corrects the thought immediately.

Size doesn’t mean anything.

It didn’t help him. 

A small smile flickers across his face.

It doesn’t help anyone, not if the other person has the right technique.

He exhales slowly, forcing the tension out.

What exactly made you so intrigued in this ignorant waste of sperm? 

Brian kneels beside him, gloved hands sliding under the man’s shoulders. He tries to lift. The man shifts, and Brian’s muscles strain against the weight. A sharp edge of frustration prickles him. Annoying. It shouldn’t feel this awkward. Technique matters. He steadies his grip under the arms, tilts the man slightly, then braces with his knees, pushing upward. The body resists, shifting, sliding against him.

A moment passes. His heart rate ticks up ever so slightly, a quiet reminder that size isn’t nothing. But he masks it immediately, he maneuvers the man toward the table. Finally, he hauls him over the edge, letting the man’s weight settle across the surface with a dull thud. Brian’s knees ache from the strain. 

He steps back, glances at the Polaroid again. Same careless face. And yet, here, under his control, order is being restored. Brian exhales, a small, satisfied smile forming. “There,” he mutters softly, “exactly where you belong.” 

He goes through his usual procedure, only sloppier this time. He doesn’t want to linger on this..thing. Limbs are cut with zero care, jagged edges, messy—bothering him more than he’ll admit. He’s a bit petty tonight. He just wants to finish. Actually, he just wants to see you.

I know, I know,

he said it's not “your day”, but you leave him no choice. You make it impossible to step back. Look at what you’ve forced him to do. He’s the only one who understands. The only one who can guide you, protect you, show you how to be better.

Someone has to take responsibility. He’s the one keeping you alive, the only one who actually sees what’s wrong with you. You’re pathetic, clinging to that idiot like he can do what you can’t. You didn’t finish yourself off because you foolishly thought he could fix you, rebuild you from your own mess.

And yet… he’s here.

You should be grateful. You will be grateful.

He’s going to make it even easier for you.

༒︎ EASY stalker!BrianMoser x f!reader

♰ WARNINGS: stalking, voyeurism/somnophilia, non-consensual sexual themes, obsessive behavior, implied sexual content, psychological manipulation, dark themes. MDNI

♰ NOTE: This is a psychological thriller and intentionally disturbing. Not romantic.

You crash onto your bed, completely drunk. You really thought you’d be able to handle more than four drinks—unreasonably confident, as always. You don’t even notice that your window is wide open, but the cold air drifting in feels nice against your flushed skin. It doesn’t take more than five minutes before you’re completely passed out.

It doesn’t take Brian more than a second to sneak in.

He’s feeling thankful tonight. You left the window open for him,

How thoughtful of you.

Your bed is positioned far enough away that he doesn’t risk disturbing you. Not that you’d wake up anyway. He knew what bar you went to, it was a different one, you were still easy to find. He also knows about your fake bitch friends who pressured you into drinking more than you should have—that’s beside the point.

In a way, he’s thankful for them too.

Now, what would he steal this time?

He already has a decent collection of your panties, most of them stiff with his dried-up cum. He’s never taken your bras before. He never really saw the appeal, didn’t understand how they’d benefit him—but experimentation is healthy. He snaps out of the thought, his gaze drifting away from your drawer and back to you.

It’d be nice to see your face up close.

It’s been a while since he’s been able to really look at you. His new job at the Miami Metro Police Department—just a cover to get closer to his brother—actually has him working real shifts. How inconvenient.

You were never supposed to show up in his life.

You were an anomaly.

But that random night changed something. The night he saw you at your most vulnerable. No one else saw you like that—the day you tried to end it. You were standing on your porch, ready to climb over, until your phone rang. Mysteriously, that call made you stop. You went back inside.

He’s always wondered who could have made you change your mind that fast.

It fascinated him.

Now you’ve become part of his routine. A constant variable. And you’re really starting to get in the way of his plan.

He walks slowly toward you. You’re a mess. Hair tangled across your face. Makeup still on. Shoes half-kicked off. Your purse loosely hanging from your fingers. He kneels beside you.

You look smaller like this—oblivious, Easy.

He stares for a few seconds, debating whether he should fix your hair before he mutters a quiet, fuck it. He gently brushes the strands away from your face, revealing your features. His expression softens. He wants more. To feel more.

But he’s cautious.

Your lashes are so long. Is it the mascara? No. You’re perfect—with or without it. His eyes linger on your lips. He can’t get enough of them. He wonders how they’d feel against his. How’d they feel while you suck his cock, forcing it down your throat while you cry relentlessly. He pictures your mascara smudged, your face ruined after he’s done using you.

The quiet room fills with the faint sound of his fly unzipping, fabric shifting as he pulls down his boxers.

Damn it.

He couldn’t help himself. Who would pass up this opportunity?

He shoves part of his shirt into his mouth, biting down to silence himself as he begins stroking slowly. His eyes close. Muffled whimpers escaping. He doesn’t look away from your face.

Shameless.

Right in front of you.

The most vile fantasies flood his mind. He can’t wait to truly have you. Can’t wait to keep you in his freezer, all to himself. Wrapped carefully. Preserved. He’d promise to be delicate.

“Fuck—”

The word comes out muffled, followed by a shaky sigh—and then realization.

He just came on your sheets. He stood still, staring at it for a moment, his eyebrows furrowed.

It was dangerously close to your face.

For a moment, he considers cleaning it up. The thought lingers for a few seconds before he abandons it. Instead, he pulls himself together, zipping up his pants and shifting his attention back to his original plan. To your hamper.

Another pair of panties wouldn’t hurt.

He digs through until he finds a navy lace pair. Cute. He smiles at the thought of you buying them, wearing them. They seem new. Fresh.

He lifts them to his nose, inhaling deeply. The scent alone is intoxicating, Like a drug. He folds the lace between his fingers carefully, almost respectfully. He’ll be kind and just take one tonight, it’s been months since he’s been doing this and you still haven’t caught on, well not that he acknowledged any changes from you. He didn’t believe you were any more intelligent. He turns to look at you again, watching you. Your breathing remains slow. Uneven. Alcohol-heavy. He steps towards the bed once more—eyes scanning you again. There’s something about seeing you like this that unsettles him—not because he feels guilt, but because you’re unpredictable. You weren’t supposed to survive that night on your porch. Statistically, people who reach that point don’t reverse course so easily. Something interrupted you. Something tethered you back.

He hates variables, he doesn’t understand.

If he wanted to, he could end this right now.

You wouldn’t even know. Though the thought doesn’t excite him the way it should. That’s what irritates him most. And now you’re off getting drunk like any other bitch, reckless.

His jaw tightens.

He doesn’t like when you’re careless.

Careless people get hurt.

His gaze drifts to your purse dangling loosely from your hand. Slowly, carefully, he pries it free and sets it on your desk. He rummages through it with quiet precision.

Lip gloss.

Wallet.

Keys.

A Polaroid.

He pulls it out almost immediately, and It catches him off guard. Some random guy stands behind you, gripping your shoulders, smiling wide—too wide. Possessive.

Brian’s expression changes.

How did he miss this?

How did he miss him?

It’s not like he wants a relationship with you. The idea almost offends him. But the thought of someone else touching you—standing that close, claiming space around you—makes something cold and violent shift inside his chest.

He wants to be the only one watching you, the only one taking “care” of you. He’s not even worthy of you, does he even know anything about you?

His thoughts spiral.

Was he the one who called you that night on the porch?

Or worse—

Was he the reason you were there in the first place?

Brian doesn’t realize how tightly he’s gripping the Polaroid until the corner bends beneath his fingers. The paper creases slightly. He forces himself to breathe.

Control.

He slides the photo into his pocket. The lace panties follow.

He can’t stand being in here another second. The room feels different now—contaminated. If he stays, he might do something impulsive.

He wouldn’t.

He shouldn’t.

Not yet.

He takes one final look around, scanning for anything out of place. The purse goes back beneath your hand on the floor, positioned almost exactly how it was, adjusting it slightly. You shift faintly in your sleep, murmuring something incoherent. His eyes flick to you. Scanning you again.

If he wanted to hurt you, you wouldn’t stand a chance.

If he wanted to teach you a lesson, you’d never see it coming.

No.

You don’t get to ruin this because you can’t manage your impulses.

You’re lucky he’s disciplined.

Because if he wasn’t, you wouldn’t be waking up tomorrow.

You just need structure.

“You’re sloppy,” he mutters under his breath, voice low and steady. Scolding you as if you could hear him.

He checks his watch.

2:03 a.m.

“What a waste of time,” he thought.

He’s just angry.

That’s all.

He’ll go back to normal soon.

He always does.

He moves toward the window, pushing the screen up just enough to slip through. The night air outside is damp and heavy. Gravel crunches faintly under his shoes as he lands silently in the narrow strip of grass beside the building. He straightens his shirt, retrieves his coat from the grass and slips it on, zipping it up. Taking one last look at the window—

The window stays open.

Anyone could look in and see you like that. Ruined. Unaware.

You make it too easy, but exposure suits you.

His expression stays blank as he steps off the grass and disappears into the dim parking lot lights.

2nd fic I had up in da drafts i finished idk if I’ll keep going w this, i actually wanted it to make it more “dark” but im j not good at writing psychological thriller without it sounding corny and performative……..

Stanford!Art Donaldson x reader

𑣲 Fluff, kissing, slight suggestive themes, brief mentions of sex. | pt. 1 |

A cold breeze brushes against your legs from the open window, the curtains lifting and falling softly as warm light spills into your room. It’s hot—80 degrees, to be exact—but the air moving through makes it bearable. You’re lying on your bed, mindlessly scrolling, waiting for Art to finish his match.

You decided not to go. You had a project to finish, and you genuinely thought it would take way longer than it did.

With a small sigh, you turn off your phone and toss it beside you. You stretch, staring up at the ceiling before glancing back out the window.

Your dorm has a nice view. One thing you love about campus is how bright everything feels, like they actually care about nature here. In the spring especially, it’s unreal. The sun practically blinds you, reflecting off the bright green grass and trees. Laughter carries easily through the air, echoing from the courtyard below. Almost every bench is filled with people enjoying the weather.

You need to stop staring outsi—

“Hey.”

There he is.

“Art!” you grin, pushing yourself off the bed and moving toward the window. “Did you take a shower?” you tease. He already sweats a lot—today’s sun definitely got him.

“I mean, yeah,” he smiles. “Can I g—”

“Not from the window. You could walk in like a normal person. I’ll take your bag though.”

He sighs dramatically but hands you his bag through the window before disappearing around the corner toward your door.

You’re already there waiting, a huge smile on your face.

The door swings open and you both move at the same time, crashing into a tight hug. He wraps his arms around you like you might disappear at any second, pressing quick kisses all over your face. You laugh, holding his cheeks in your hands and kissing him back just as much.

“Missed you. Sorry I didn’t go again—I genuinely wasted so much time ’cause I thought that project would take wayyy longer…” you mumble, tilting your head and squeezing his hand.

“You’re sooo good,” he mocks your tone, squeezing your hand back. “Is your roommate here? I need to shower. Do you have any leftover clothes of mine?—actually, never mind. I just remembered I have clean ones in my bag.”

He crouches down, digging through it, setting his tennis equipment aside before tossing a change of clothes onto your bed.

You walk over and sit gently on the edge of the bed, watching him rush to peel off his sweaty shirt. He’s a mess. Hair slightly damp, skin flushed from the sun. You can’t help but let out a small chuckle.

“Is someone waiting for you?” you tease.

“You are.” Not even a look back.

The way he says it makes your stomach flip. A slow smirk spreads across his face as he pulls off his polo. Smooth. Too smooth.

“Come here,” you murmur, curling your finger toward yourself. Your brows furrow slightly, lips forming a playful pout.

And he listens.

He walks toward you without breaking eye contact. You lean back on your hands at the edge of the bed as he steps between your knees. Slowly, he lowers himself, crawling forward until he’s hovering over you.

You smile softly, taking in every detail of his face just in case he goes on a “hiatus” again.

His hand comes up to cup your cheek. He presses a kiss to your neck, slow and deliberate, then trails them upward until his lips meet yours. Your hands slide to his jaw, then down to his neck, fingers tracing everywhere like you physically can’t stop touching him.

The kissing deepens. You’re both too desperate. You haven’t properly hung out in two weeks between your workload and his constant training sessions. There’s a kind of urgency there, like you’re both trying to make up for lost time.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer.

Then he pulls back slowly.

“Actually—” he exhales, standing up abruptly. “I wanted to hang outside for a bit. Like… a picnic date. The weather’s really nice, and I just wanna spend time with you.”

He grabs an unused towel from your closet and heads into the bathroom before you can even process it.

You blink.

A picnic date?

That’s new.

“That’s actually such a cute idea, Artie. I was literally thinking about that earlier—like deadass,” you call out, sitting up with a wide smile.

“Great minds think alike,” he responds from behind the bathroom door as the shower turns on.

You stand up and start getting dressed. Nothing too crazy—you don’t plan on being outside that long anyway. A small part of you hopes he’ll want to take your clothes off again rather quickly. Still, you want to look cute for him.

The bathroom door opens, and Art steps out, hair dripping, aggressively drying it with a towel. In his other hand is one of your hair creams.

“This works for my hair, right?” he asks, squinting at the label.

“Yes, dude. It literally says for any hair type,” you reply, finishing up your makeup.

“Alright, just checkin’.”

He sets it down, grabs his clean clothes, and changes without hesitation. You don’t even react. At this point, it’s normal. Comfortable.

A few minutes later, you feel a gentle tug on your shirt.

“You ready? You look gorgeous,” he says softly, leaning down to press a kiss to your cheek.

“Yup.” You smile, cupping his face and kissing his lips. “You look cute.”

He tilts his head dramatically. “Nice coming from you. Haven’t heard a compliment from my own girlfriend in sooo long.”

“Oh, please,” you laugh, standing up. “Anyway, don’t we have to get the stuff? Like the food and everything?”

“Nope. Already handled. It’s in the trunk of my car—which is outside—so I’ll be right back, baby.”

He rushes out the door.

You stand there for a second.

He planned it. Before he even came over. I’m so ready to fuck this guy.

Took about 5 minutes before you hear your name from outside the door, followed by a lot of ruffling and shuffling.

“Coming!” you call back, pausing the video on your phone and hopping off the bed.

When you open the door, Art is standing there with his stupidly adorable smile, holding a bouquet of flowers, You also notice the picnic basket filled with chocolates, fruits, and other snacks sitting at his feet.

“I need a bit of help,” he says casually, like this whole situation couldn’t possibly get any better.

You immediately cover your face, overwhelmed, in a good way.

“Oh my gosh, Art.”

You can’t hide the huge smile spreading across your face as you grab the bouquet from him.

“You’re literally the best boyfriend ever. This is so cute and thoughtful.”

“I tried,” he shrugs, though you can see he’s proud of himself. “It’s been a while since we actually saw each other, and I really wanted to surprise you.”

He crouches down to grab the picnic basket. “Alright, let’s get going.”

He steps aside so you can exit your dorm. You lean in and kiss him one more time before walking out, and he closes the door behind you.

As you walk, you admire the flowers more closely. He clearly took notes. The bouquet is filled with the kinds you’ve complimented or randomly mentioned throughout your relationship, all bundled together beautifully.

The sun suddenly hits both of you like a laser.

“Yeah… we’re definitely finding a bench with some good shade,” he mutters, placing a hand over his forehead and squinting dramatically.

You spot an empty bench beneath a tree, shaded just enough to save you from melting.

“Over there,” you tap him, pointing.

“Nice,” he nods, and the two of you walk toward it.

When you arrive, you gently place the bouquet on the table and reach for the picnic basket to help set up, but he pulls it back.

“I got it. My little princess doesn’t need to move a muscle,” he teases, already unpacking everything.

“As you should,” you tease back, crossing your arms and watching him work.

He lays everything out surprisingly neatly—fruit in one container, chocolates in another, small sandwiches wrapped carefully. You didn’t even realize he was capable of this level of organization.

“How’s Patrick?” you ask, breaking the silence.

“He’s good. We hung out at this arcade place nearby a couple days ago. Haven’t really talked since—well, other than sending each other random videos. He asked about you too, actually,” he adds, already stuffing a piece of chocolate into his mouth, impatient as always.

“Yeah? What’d he say?” You grab the chocolate straight from his hand, silently telling him to relax and to finish setting up.

He pouts but quickly finishes arranging everything.

“Ta-da,” he says proudly.

“Answer the question,” you laugh.

“Uh… I think something like, ‘What’s up with the huzz?” he replies, more focused on stealing the chocolate back from you than the actual story.

“Oh. I was expecting something worse.” You deliberately hold the chocolate just out of reach before finally handing it to him.

“What? You’re cheating on me?” he jokes, chewing as he finally sits down.

“You caught me,” you deadpan.

He gasps dramatically before breaking into a grin.

“Let us enjoy this nice little picnic date, thanks to Artie,” you said, grabbing a sandwich.

“You’re welcome, guys,” he replies playfully, bowing his head. Then his tone softens. “Seriously though… I really missed hanging out with you. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I don’t know how much longer I could’ve survived just texting and calling.”

“Yeah, you know I hate that stuff too. You’re an exception though,” you smile, the sunlight filtering through the leaves and landing perfectly on his face. “You look very handsome.”

He chuckles, clearly flustered. “Thanks. Must be because I’m sitting next to the prettiest girl on campus.”

“Yeah, alright,” you roll your eyes playfully, but your cheeks warm anyway.

For a while, you just sit there. You feed each other pieces of fruit. He wipes a bit of chocolate from the corner of your lip with his thumb, pretending to scold you for being messy. You lean your head against his shoulder, and he instinctively wraps an arm around you.

The campus feels quieter now, like everything else faded into the background.

He starts telling you about his match—how he almost lost a set, how his coach was yelling, how he kept thinking about coming to see you after. You tell him about your project, Your friend’s boy issues, Family and whatever other things that came to your mind.

At some point, your fingers intertwine on top of the bench.

There’s a comfortable silence that settles between you.

You glance up at him. He’s already looking at you.

“What?” you ask softly.

“Nothing,” he smiles. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

“Very,” he replies, leaning in closer.

His hand moves to your waist, pulling you just slightly into his side. Not rushed. Not desperate. Just close.

The sun starts dipping lower, the heat softening.

“You wanna head back?” he asks quietly, brushing his thumb over your knuckles.

You tilt your head. “Already?”

He smirks just a little. “I mean… unless you wanna stay out here.”

You pretend to think about it for a second before stretching and standing up.

“If you insist.”

He laughs, packing everything back up, but this time he doesn’t rush. His hand finds yours as you both start walking back toward your dorm. And the way he squeezes your hand tells you the picnic wasn’t the only thing he planned on finishing today.

(looks better on dark mode)

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

- Your texts consist of “gym” , “gym?” “picking u up 4 gym” “can we go to the gym 2day?”. Even when you’re mad at an each other, he would refuse to let that get in the way.

- You both push eachother into more doing more reps, always until failure. He always listens to your bantering to do more reps but on the other hand, you’d curse him out if you’re struggling mid rep and he’s saying you can do more, you still listen ofc, sometimes.

- He definitely cooks more out of both of you and he’d try to recreate those steak on wood cutting board with a bunch of bullshit on it because he saw it on TikTok. And he’s always carrying protein shakes, specifically vanilla fairlife. He’s constantly making you eat and creating the most disgusting recipes just because it’s 120 protein.

- Honestly I don’t think he’d post himself “flexing” and if he did, you’d always be in the post with either some corny TikTok slideshow sound or alt rnb. And he has about 4 reposts, not sure what they’d be but I don’t think he’d repost a bunch ngl! He’s always sending you videos though and giving unsolicited advice on what excersises to do for leg day that are not optimal whatsoever.

- Patrick would ask to go to the gym with him but he’d usually always say no, he prefers to go with you every time. Sometimes if you can’t go he would rather not go either. If you guys are arguing/mad at each other and not talking it makes him go harder, higher weights and pushing himself to do better.

- He doesn’t care what you wear but secretly he prefers when you wear baggy clothes.

- Compliments you all the time and lets you know how proud he is of you, reminding you how much progress you’ve made, ect.

- He wouldn’t be big/ extremely muscular… obviously lean, his back and biceps tho 🥹 and he has a good amount of quad muscle nothing too crazy.

- His gym attire consists of stupid ass shirts like “eat sleep game” , occasionally wears compression shirts, specially the ones you bought him. Or hoodies and sweatpants you’ll never catch him wearing wife beaters and shorts at the gym gtfo….

- You guys help each other out; he’d help your form when you’re doing upper and you’d help him on his leg days. Also when one of you is mid rest you’d walk up to the other whos either mid rep or also resting and just start talking bs.

- I think, in my opinion his gym playlist would have indie/alt rock/rnb, maybe a like 2 metal songs?? he LOVES Malcom Todd idc no one can tell me otherwise. And some jazz.

#firstposteva